MISSING PIECES
by Wynsom
Summary: These 3 chapters are 'in between scenes" NOT provided in the actual episode His Last Vow, (Season 3; Episode 3), but they keep within the Sherlock BBC Canon. They began as one shots entitled GO Home (1,2.3), are updated is small but significant ways, and linked under the title series MISSING PIECES.
1. Chapter 1

**MISSING PIECES: updates to the GO HOME series**

**The series of chapters are 'in between scenes" NOT provided in the actual episode His Last Vow, (****_Season 3; Episode 3_****), but they keep within the Sherlock BBC Canon. **

**The first, entitled GO HOME, questions if wounds will heal, and takes place after Sherlock's collapses with internal bleeding at Baker Street and wakes up in hospital during (a presumed) period of recovery, months before Christmas.**

**The second conversation, GO HOME 2, weeks before Christmas, takes place after Sherlock has been discharged and recovering back at Baker Street. Wounds are healing, but John is in limbo about where he belongs…where is home now? **

**The third, GO HOME 3, chapter includes conversations with Mycroft, John, and Sherlock, just after Christmas. Some wounds have healed, new wounds are open...**

**They began as one shots, but they are now linked in this one fanfic . Please read through to the end. It may surprise you. And of course, enjoy!**

**(as always…disclaimers about ownership and all, apply here …) **

* * *

"Go home." Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and squinted. "You should go home, John."

"I'mmm home…," a sleepy John Watson mumbled from the chair in the private hospital room. He shook himself awake. Was he dreaming or had Sherlock clearly spoken to him? Diagnostic beeps remained steady. Their regularity had been the white noise allowing John to sneak catnaps as again he sat vigil (thanks to medical privileges at Barts) by the heavily sedated patient's bedside.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes darted from the pale human face to the face of the monitors, double checking the machines to confirm the full consciousness of the patient who was obviously fully awake. Dosing down the sedatives was the recent decision at the last medical conference and Sherlock was coming out of it as hoped.

"Sherlock!" Bright blue eyes followed John as he verified the vitals and took Sherlock's pulse. Sherlock offered a quirky smile, proof that he was responding to external stimuli.

Speechless, John grasped his friend's hand, joy transforming his weary face.

Sherlock smile again, this time with warmth, in response to emotional stimuli.

John laughed, his palpable relief like the morning light creeping over the windowsill.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes taking note of John's dishevel state—another long night's watch. "It's been weeks, John. You LOOK awful."

"Haven't looked at yourself yet!"

"You should go home, really, John. Get some rest."

"First let me report your condition... "

"No, wait." The raised hand, a gesture so familiar, commanded obedience.

John complied.

"You've been alternating work with visits, and it's catching up. Your clothes are crumpled, your shaving splotchy—no mustache, (thank you, so you must not have been hopeless on my account). You need a haircut. No one is taking care of you, helping you juggle the disruptions in you routine. You're still trying to fit biking in there, but what the hell for, it's just a guilt-driven nuisance since you're not doing it with any regularity. Do I detect a coffee stain on your shirt? You're fretting over A.G. RA (That's not hard, I've heard you talking in your sleep.) You've been avoiding decisions, but you can't keep sleeping on office sofas, at Baker Street, or in hospital chairs."

"Welcome back," John's voice was amused, but his face tightened. "You know, Sherlock, a normal patient would be asking his doctor how _he's_ doing?" John raised his palm quieting what he expected would be Sherlock's interruption. "Believe me, I know you are anything but NORMAL, however you still need to know what you can expect over the next several weeks, maybe months, as you recover and what therapies you will need, if any."

"I've been listening to the relentless medical chatter as a captive audience with no relief. Heavy sedation and **_semi-_**consciousness have their drawbacks."

"You're in hospital! Can't avoid it. Permit me." John examined Sherlock's piercing blue eyes, spreading the lids and directing the patient to look in specific directions, until he seemed satisfied. "Good!"

"Yes, John. I know there are some residual medical challenges that are unavoidable. All so unfortunate! But timing is very important. There's still an unresolved complication and we must be swift."

"Have you been listening, Sherlock?"

"Of course I have, I just told you." Sherlock attempted to sit up quickly. Immediately, he thought better of it when his sutured chest wound made him flinch.

"No, I mean, that you are still medically fragile…No climbing out windows to solve a case. Your next visit won't land you in hospital, more likely the morgue—and this time, Molly can't help you!"

Sherlock considered John's words with a tilt of his head. Maybe speed was not the solution. Yes, more time, more time to plan. He knew he was in no shape to assess every possibility from his hospital bed and a premature strike would be disastrous. "Advice taken," he decided. "You are a wise and trustworthy friend, Dr. Watson."

John raised his eyebrows in skeptical surprise.

"I concede respectfully." Sherlock retreated momentarily in thought. Once dismissive of motivations derived from emotions, Sherlock was seeing with new clarity John's constancy—a fidelity Sherlock felt he didn't deserve. The least he could do to earn John's good faith was try not to **_die_** again.

Emotions aside, there was no other like John—a compassionate man with tremendous courage, a leader who was humble enough to follow, and an astonishing stalwart companion in dangerous situations—and this man, John, had chosen the offensively alienating Sherlock to befriend.

As he lay for indeterminate time in hospital, his consciousness enveloped by a dense fog, Sherlock was always aware when John was present. John would call him by name, converse with him, check his pulse, squeeze his hand. Sherlock would squeeze back and tried responding, but sluggishness produced only garbled incoherence. Often, he was too tired to be frustrated by his inability to be understood.

"But indulge me this question… As unpleasant as it may be...I'm sure most patients feel this way when they missed so much… "

John, preparing for his friends medical concerns, nodded attentively.

"I want to know. What's...? How's ...? Hmmm. Where's... Mmmary?"

The doctor blinked. "She checks in…" Glancing around, John leaned in closer, his face cast in shadow, and whispered, "She **_shouldn't_** have shot you." After the words dissolved, John allowed his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock detected both apology and outrage warring within his friend. "But staying away, John, is not how you make amends." He closed his eyes, surprised by his own weariness. Morphine was readily available should the pain become too great again, but Sherlock was tired of feeling dimwitted. "I told you, we can trust her."

"I'm not staying away. I'm staying here, for you—to attend to you." John shook his head sadly. "She knows even a nonfatal gunshot wound can incapacitate for a long time, with perhaps a lifetime of side effects or disability. Blood loss could lead to brain damage, organ damage and failure. She knew all this and took THAT particular shot anyway." Despite his whispering, John's emotions were at a robust boil. "All this was complicated by internal bleeding because you felt compelled to leave the hospital to set things right—not just prolonging your recovery, but putting you in greatest risk. This," he gestured to the surroundings, "serves as home now! SHE must wait until I am happy that you are healing properly!"

"Until you are happy... Hmm. Will you be happy, John?" Sherlock searched John's face. The question had hit its mark.

"Christ, Sherlock! You care about people's happiness now?" John turned away, but not before Sherlock could see his anguished expression.

"Not people's happiness, just my friend's," was the soft reply. Sherlock closed his eyes again to hear the nuances in John's voice. Since his return to London, Sherlock had grown in immense appreciation of John's selfless friendship, something the self-absorbed Sherlock had taken for granted before. It may have been a poor excuse, though true, to assert that John's enduring loyalty and sincere devotion had been foreign to Sherlock. Rejected constantly as a result of his obnoxious social skills and overt intellectual snobbery, Sherlock was inept at cultivating actual friendships.

The literal impact of John's fierce rejection when Sherlock cavalierly strolled back into his life—_surprise!_—was life changing—Sherlock was becoming adept at deducing emotions—at least those of John Watson's. While John claimed he was not "good at this," when conveying his own deep feelings, Sherlock knew John was indeed good at this. Look how well he was teaching Sherlock.

Listening, Sherlock could hear John's pain. It was as deep as his own wound had been, but John's recovery might not be as quick.

"I don't know." John stammered. "I thought I was happy. I thought I deserved happiness. I thought I was blessed with not one, but two, now three people, who give my life meaning and purpose. Everything seemed so Bloody perfect and all too brief! How could I believe this illusion?" John choked on the words. "I was blind—you're right, Sherlock. Emotions cloud judgment—I was blind to her and her assassin instincts. Now you're lying here..."

"Not dead." Sherlock assured.

"SHE nearly killed you. Technically you were dead for two minutes. So she really killed you! It's as good as killing me. She knows how much I grieved for you before."

Sherlock felt weak before the resurrected grief on John's face. How wrong he had been to subject his best friend to two years of this pain. Too late to take back past wrongs, but Sherlock would do everything possible to make the present better and be the "best man" of which he was capable. "John, listen. She apologized for shooting me. Granted, her reasons were tinged by her dark past, which may be mystifying to us both, but it was a calculated gamble and her medical knowledge was in her favour and mine, apparently."

"You defend her and I don't know why!" John exploded.

"So many reasons: Let's start with the obvious sentimental ones, including that I like her. She's carrying YOUR child… She loves you. She loves your child." Sherlock moved more carefully to sit up. "She loves me too. I know that or I would not be standing here. Now help me stand." Sherlock encircled his left arm about John's shoulders as John cautiously brought the recovering man to his feet, robed and ready to start living again.

Sherlock's voice was gentle in John's ear. "I vowed to be there for all three of you...because you deserve happiness." Sherlock paused for balance and broke free of John's support to stand unaided. Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock turned toward his friend. "And you still love her. That's what matters most."

John dropped his gaze.

Yes, he did love Mary. He missed her. She WAS exhilarating, funny, caring, intelligent, warm-hearted, strong-willed, forgiving, and now, he discovered, tantalizingly dangerous. She generously gave John his freedom, which made him want to stay by her side. But, John was in mourning for the promised life now lost, grieving the trust now broken, and in fear there would be no healing for the deep wounds that had been inflicted. He could only hope that, if the wounds did not fester, they would heal.

Watching Sherlock stand apart, summoning strength, John felt a pang of abiding affection and respect for his best friend. This incredible man with powers of deduction that few could equal saw through John's soul and cared enough to share an ordinary man's vision of happiness.

Looking up into Sherlock's brilliant smile, John caught his breath. If Sherlock healed, so could John's life, and they would all go home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Missing Pieces: Go Home** _Part 2_ _Scenes In Between from HLV_

_Wounds may be healing. Sherlock has returned to Baker Street and is secretly planning to raid Appledore. John finally opens up about how he's managing with and without Mary since Sherlock nearly died a second time._

* * *

Climbing the staircase to his flat at 221B Baker Street was no longer exhausting. Sherlock bounded up two steps at a time, his long legs pumping with very little strain. Satisfied with another errand complete, Sherlock swung the rolled newspaper like a conductor's baton as he hummed a melody. Everything was almost as before.

Time had allowed his body to replenish, his acumen to sharpen, and his plan to take shape, although none of these had reached his standards of perfection. Yet, Sherlock was galvanized about raiding the vaults of Appledore and prying sensitive information from the black-hearted, blackmailer Charles Augustus Magnussen. Aspects of the plan had already been set in motion.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called up. "You mustn't run, dear. You'll burst your stitches!"

"Don't fret, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's baritone voice descended with sonorous clarity. "My doctor says I'm fine!"

"Well, it doesn't hurt to play safe, Sherlock. You cause so much heartache when you do crazy things."

Sherlock wasn't going to argue with the truth. There was no point. The latest "heartache was nearly dying from a gunshot wound in the gut, but at last, Sherlock was feeling the exhilaration of purpose. The thrill fed the addiction. The game would soon be on, and Sherlock was doing everything necessary to prepare himself.

"John!" His doctor was waiting in the flat.

Sherlock suppressed the tiny smile whenever he found John, like old times, at 221B Baker Street. Months ago, he might have added, "what a pleasant surprise, "but there was no need now. Since the shooting, John was visiting all the more, sometimes staying overnight in his old bedroom, mumbling an imaginative array of lame excuses about not wanting to disturb Mary or something. The excuses were not important, John's reasons to offer them were.

As much as Sherlock relished his friend's attention and enjoyed his company, it was a guilty pleasure. Sherlock knew he was being selfish and weak.

Guilt. When had Sherlock felt guilt?

From the moment they met, John's genuine appreciation for Sherlock's deductive reasoning was flattering. Sherlock was more accustomed to reactions like "piss off" or "freak," or the derision of Mycroft who always made him feel diminished, causing Sherlock to overreact with grand gestures to prove he was not a failure.

John Watson was unique. He seemed to accept, even admire Sherlock. John's praise was a reward Sherlock sought, John's approval gave Sherlock self-worth, and John's support calmed Sherlock's overwhelming drive to succeed at all costs. John not only tamed the dragon in Sherlock's soul, he had saved Sherlock from self-destructing so many times. Who wouldn't want or need such a person in one's life? Their friendship was an unexpected bonus, for which Sherlock felt the most gratitude. While sentiment had never been his strong point, Sherlock had grown fond of John Watson, enough so he was willing to put John's needs ahead of his own.

This level of caring about another caused the conundrum: "Guilt."

Since he had been recuperating at Baker Street, however, Sherlock was aware how quickly he had relapsed into his former ego-centric ways. He intellectualized that he was still recovering and that he certainly was no hero, which gave him time to lick his wounds and regroup. Later, when his strength fully returned, he would again rally in his commitment to John.

Meantime, the Magnussen case, swirling secretly in his head, was looming in sharper focus and causing him worry. In a little more than five weeks, it would all be over, one way or another.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had made a bargain with the devil. With himself, he had a vow to uphold. In the past, he would have consulted his doctor for trustworthy advice, but John was not in the best of places, lately. In fact, John didn't know his place anymore.

Sherlock was also not in a good place. Although the medical reports confirmed Sherlock's physical wound had healed, on an emotional level, Sherlock was feeling off balance. He missed his sounding board. As tempted as he was to confide in his friend, Sherlock postponed taking any action that might tip the scales further. Sherlock certainly wanted to help John, but was not quite ready to give John the nudge toward reconciliation with Mary. Not just yet, anyway.

This sin of omission produced an entirely new emotion—shame—in his selfishness.

"Selfish!" John growled as he reclaimed his accustomed armchair.

Sherlock dropped in his seat, his eyes fluttered in surprise, his jaw tightened.

"I'm being selfish!" John was downcast and sheepish. "I shouldn't be bothering you with my domestic ambivalence. Been thinking I should rent a flat somewhere..." He looked up quickly. Did he just hear Sherlock sigh?

"Don't be hasty." Sherlock ran his hand through his black curly locks and shook off a sudden chill.

"You think several months hasty?" John was concerned that Sherlock looked distracted. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" Hesitantly, John stood.

"No! Fine, fine!" Sherlock's hands slapped the air downward, motioning John to remain seated. "I know you have a lot on your mind." Sherlock clutched the arms of his chair and looked about his room, searching the walls and ceiling for answers he normally could just pluck from midair. But there were none at this moment. Finally he let his eyes rest sadly on John. "Yes. Rough times right now! Yes. Don't let it tear you up."

"Too late for that!"

"Christmas will be difficult..."

"Christmas, Sherlock?" John furrowed his brow, curious and slightly perplexed. "What does Bloody Christmas have to do with this?"

"Oh! Did I say that aloud?" Sherlock stifled a nervous laugh. "Forget it, John! I just find it causes unnecessary contrasts between those who are happy and those who are not. Being that it's, let's see, five weeks and four days away...and traditionally preplanning is essential..." Sherlock verbally tap danced around his subconscious blunder—Magnussen's Christmas deadline—which he wanted to keep from John. Or maybe subconsciously he didn't? "We are already being fed subliminal themes of family and happiness and promises...with visual and audio stimuli..."

John stared at him. "You think this won't be resolved before Christmas?"

"Perhaps not." Sherlock shrugged, mentally deciding an appropriate gift for the Watson's, _must be reconciled on Christmas._

"That doesn't take any amazing feats of deduction!" John scrutinized his friend's face, noting the ice blue eyes were clear and focused, the complexion held normal coloration and temperature, and that no other physical anomalies like tremors or lateral weakness indicative of health complications were apparent. While all seemed well, John sensed Sherlock was harboring something else, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. But stating the obvious was certainly atypical of pre-traumatized Sherlock, which was one of the variety of reasons why John was checking up on him with great frequency.

"The way things are going, it seems a solid prediction." Sherlock's truth stung.

After a sharp intake of breath, anger edged John's tone. "Don't you think I have good reason?"

"Absolutely!"

"Well, then," John released the sudden pressure, his rage, with a long exhale and sunk deeper into the chair. He closed his eyes. His let his words stumbled through the darkness. "I do have lots on my mind, but… it's not so much on my mind as in my heart. I feel selfish when I say I want to go back to her. I want to forgive her…. I don't want to know WHO she was. I just want to know who she is NOW!" John rolled his head from side to side, though his eyes remained clenched shut, as though he customarily rehearsed these words only when enveloped in obscurity. "I'mmmm…I'm, I'm torn with the feeling that if I go back to her, I am betraying you."

When John reopened his eyes, Sherlock was gazing kindly at him over steepled fingers.

"You know my opinion, John." Sherlock's tone was gentle. "We share the same addiction. We are predisposed to danger. The moment adrenaline courses through our veins from the thrill of the challenge, the excitement of battle, we feel most alive. I admit you mask it better, and seem more normalized."

"Glad I'm sane in your eyes."

Sherlock studied his friend for a moment. "John, you are the most sane and humane person I have ever encountered, yet your have the courage of an warrior for whom the mundane is pathetically mind numbing. Since your training and experiences in Afghanistan, you have found your calling. You cannot submerge this tendency within the routine of the common masses. You cannot go back to an ordinary life."

John fidgeted uncomfortably.

Sherlock leaned forward tapping John's knee. "This does not make you evil. It makes you extraordinary."

Troubled by such unnerving, but possibly accurate, psychoanalysis, John was more deeply touched by Sherlock's revelation. "Extraordinary?"

"Listen, listen to me, John!" Sherlock continued softly. "When I heard your outburst that first day in the flat... you threw down your cane in disgust and shouted angrily about your leg to Mrs. Hudson...I froze on the threshold. Your anger brought me back upstairs. Did you ever wonder why I invited you on our first case together. It was obvious you craved excitement."

John nodded in agreement, appreciatively.

"So, choosing Mary, who masterfully disguised her perilous past with superficial innocence, only demonstrates further that even on a subconscious level you are attracted to risk. Without realizing it you have surrounded yourself with a high-functioning sociopath as a 'best friend' and a wife who's led a double life. Both can and probably will lead you down hazardous paths. You must see that this is what you prefer."

"You and Mary see this in me, but I tell you, it's been a shock to me!"

"That's because, since you are socially attuned to others in your commitment to heal them, you assume you are similar. But, you are not, and by your choice of friends, you've known it all along. You said it yourself when we were on the bench investigating the Royal Guardsman. You sensed there was something more about Mary."

"I didn't think you were listening since you had apparently vanished..."

"I heard you as I was leaving."

"Did you hear everything?"

"I guess I was out of earshot when you called me a complete dick-head." Sherlock smiled knowingly.

"Well, it's true," John chuckled despite himself. "But the wisest and best one I've ever known."

Sherlock cringed with the praise. "You lionize me, John, and for that I am most honored. However, I must advise you that I have not been acting wisely or best on your behalf. Rather, your selfishness is minuscule compared to mine."

John's face, open with trusting expectation, crumbled the wall of resistance Sherlock had built. "I am ashamed I have not helped you enough with your dilemma. You belong with Mary. She is worth fighting for, and no one has a right to come between you—not even I."

"We talk a bit, not enough I am afraid. Although most times, I'm at a loss at what to say." John's voice was husky with emotion. "This silence between us smarts, and Mary's eyes are sad, but she is very, very patient."

Sherlock did not interrupt. He listened attentively, his face softened with an unusually tender expression that both comforted John and encouraged him to continue.

"I stay at our flat sometimes, the office other times. You know when I'm here. I really don't know where I should be. I've asked her to give me time to process everything. She pleads with me to forgive her. I know she's afraid that when I read the memory stick, I will find her abhorrent."

John clenched his fists suddenly. "Why, Sherlock? Why did she do it?"

"You make her vulnerable to Magnussen."

John nodded. "Her 'pressure point,' just as she is mine. But so are you—the both of you make me vulnerable to Magnussen!"

"She feared…was afraid of losing you."

"Afraid." John repeated. "Hmmmm. It's the oddest thing, Sherlock. I am not afraid of her: my wife, the black ops intelligence agent, capable of assassinating anybody who gets in her way, including me and my best friend. You would think a husband would be in great trepidation about setting her off. Absurd, maybe, but I don't fear her?"

"That person vanished five years ago. The person you now love is the Mary Watson we have both grown to know and care for."

John wiped a small tear off his check. "I might carry this memory stick in my pocket, but I carry memories of her voice, her laugh, her beautiful eyes with me everywhere, and I cannot shake this longing."

"That longing is for belonging." Sherlock felt renewed strength as he listened carefully to his inner voice about what John needed most.

"You must decide the WHEN, but, John, there is no question. You belong with Mary."

Sherlock stood. "It's time to go home!"

John also stood, clapped his friend on the shoulder, and smiled. "Soon!"

"Let's have a Merry Christmas!" Sherlock smiled back.


	3. Chapter 3

**MISSING PIECES Go Home** **Part 3 **

**_During Sherlock's incarceration, Mycroft, John and Sherlock shared hopes, regrets, and heal wounds of misunderstanding, that provides a basis to the albeit restrained final meeting at the air base._**

* * *

"I need to see him!" John Watson was boiling mad. Sherlock was still incarcerated for murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen, and Mycroft had been inaccessible far too long.

"Where's Anthea? Where's Mycroft?" John planted a heavy fist down on the desk where the male aide sat stoically. "It's been nearly 24 hours!" John took pleasure in seeing him flinch.

"_Enough_ of this!"

John pivoted. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother and professed protector, had entered the office flanked by several parliamentary officials. The powerful man used his fluid voice, like water, to douse the flames of John's anger.

"Stop menacing my aide, John? Don't you think I had more important matters than keeping you informed on developments?" With a slight nod of his head, Mycroft dismissed his companions. "Gentlemen."

They dispersed, eyes averted, John noted with a sinking feeling.

"Follow me, Dr. Watson."

Smoothly his aide opened the office door, letting Mycroft sail through, but shut it just a little too abruptly behind John. _Payback for my rudeness, _John registered without dispute.

Mycroft's office was meticulous and unchanged, as if real work were never done within, so that nothing might soil or disturb the grander of these halls of government. In the past John had been impressed with the magnificent splendor of Mycroft's inner sanctum, but the interior seemed ominously dark on this late December evening. Just a few days prior, they were celebrating Christmas together, Mycroft loudly mewing like a cranky cat in protest about spending time in the parental Holmes' homestead.

"_Merry Christmas!"_

John closed his eyes with a shiver. The echo of Sherlock's voice that fateful moment before he pulled the trigger played endlessly. Did his brilliant Sherlock fail to anticipate the dire consequences of so mindless an act—cold-blooded murder—witnessed by forces in circling helicopters? What was he thinking?

"What _indeed _was he thinking?" Mycroft spoke aloud as though he could read John's thoughts, an uncanny talent both Holmes brothers seemingly possessed. "That is the problem. I am afraid that my _little_ brother was not thinking clearly. I warned him about emotional commitment and its dangers. _Poor_ Sherlock! He probably thought he could handle it. Instead, human error has reared its ugly head. I blame you."

Mycroft spoke offhandedly but with deliberate intent. He wanted to evoke pain or at least lay guilt elsewhere. With smug satisfaction, he observed in John's expression the reaction he desired. Threads of human sentiments: affection, fear, regret, compassion, grief, and guilt wove like an elaborate tapestry across the man's features, but unexpectedly Mycroft sensed them become colored by rage.

"You can stop demeaning him with 'little'." Was all John could sputter, furiously pacing in tight circles as Mycroft sat in his desk chair. "Regardless of his motives, what are you doing about it? He took on this case at the request of Lady Smallwood. Is there any humane consideration being attached to the incident? Where's Sherlock now?"

Abruptly, John halted. "I need to see him." It was a request.

Ever since their first encounter, Mycroft had been amazed by, and if he cared to admit, jealous of, this accidental friendship of antisocial Sherlock: John Watson. Who was he? All records indicated that the ex-army doctor was really an ordinary man, obviously self-made to some degree, not born into powerful connections that opened gilded doors to aristocracy, corporate magnates, or seats of power. Yet, despite his common pedigree, or perhaps because of it, the former soldier had established a sterling record as a man of great character, fierce determination, unswerving loyalty, high principles, and genuine compassion, all qualities that commanded respect wherever he went. His allegiance could not be bought, it had to be earned; for some mysterious reason, Sherlock had won this prize.

And doors opened to him, even Mycroft's.

"I need to see him."

"I heard you the first time."

John stood silently at attention, his eyes trained on Mycroft with a steadfast focus that put a shamed flush on Mycroft's cheeks and flushed out an answer no one expected to hear. "I'm sorry."

"Wwwwhhhat do yyyyou mean? You're sorry? You're sorry!" John's eyes were backlit with a violence he masterfully controlled in a quiet tone and inert body.

Mycroft cautioned himself about the explosive power standing an arm's length away, and decided it would be prudent to switch off his shield of haughtiness in the face of John's raw emotions. _Is this how John handled Sherlock?_

"As you are aware, John, vigilantism, no matter how justified, causes anarchy. It cannot be condoned and it cannot go unpunished. This sensitive case that is currently forefront in the news has caused heated debate over the spirit of the law versus the letter of the law. Because of its high profile, we cannot _just _make it go away. The great hue and cry of public opinion have vocalized genuine sympathies for Sherlock—an overwhelming majority in fact, not only on the streets of London, but also within the citadels of parliament. However, he committed an act of murder—we cannot argue otherwise—and there are no easy reparations in the justice system for this crime, even if the victim deserved to die. Civilization necessitates we abide by the law, and in the case of Magnussen's transgressions, the law would have had to decide his punishment."

"But Magnussen worked outside the law! He was an insidious blackmailer!" John protested. "He destroyed people with his enormous mind palace through manipulation, innuendo, slander, and lies and used the tools of his almighty press to wield it. He would never have been caught or convicted. People _wanted _him dead."

"Wishing one dead is not prosecutable, pulling the trigger is. Sherlock made the ultimate sacrifice that will benefit countless individuals, but his motives were not so magnanimous. Unfortunately, my dear Dr. Watson, he really did it to save you."

"I didn't ask him to..," John moaned.

"But it was something you wanted, unspoken perhaps. Since you function within restrictions of accepted morality, even as a soldier at war, you would not have committed murder. Sherlock did it for you. That is the problem. An amoral man like my ...er... brother works outside the accepted principles of right and wrong..."

"He wasn't wrong. Magnussen needed to be stopped. It didn't help that you discouraged him, which was as good as pulling the trigger yourself...You didn't have the stones to handle the matter...which mystifies me still, considering the blackmailer's network of pressure points was aimed at getting you!"

"And now my 'pressure point' is charged with murder. Yes, John, I was aware of Magnussen's designs on me." Mycroft shook his head sadly. "That man deserved to die for the irreparable harm done to our country and people."

"You agree then!"

"Of course I agree. However, that is the nature of this beast we call diplomacy; all too often it functions within the grey areas of policy. At times, we are left questioning whether amoral acts in the name of justice are truly righteous. I am not blameless of such difficult decisions made for the common good …" Mycroft grew quiet and mournful, speaking softly as if from a great distance. "In his defense, I've given my colleagues the assurance that my brother was always more essential as a scalpel, used with precision and without remorse, than a blunt instrument of destruction.…but this day, he has become the bluntest of instruments and presumably a **great** **danger to society**." Mycroft cleared his throat. "But there were other reasons to keep Magnussen alive. It wasn't the time or the way to execute that plan."

"So what now?"

"After much deliberation with my esteemed colleagues, including the aggrieved Lady Smallwood who demonstrated the most congeniality, there are two options that have precedents: imprisonment—20 years with good behavior (which is impossible for Sherlock) or an undercover mission for his government.

John grimaced. "Does he know?"

"Upon our strong encouragement, he's accepted the mission."

John worried that Sherlock had not completely recovered from the nearly fatal gunshot wound from months ago. Would he be able to sustain the punishment of undercover assignments that would be exceedingly perilous? "For how long?"

Mycroft veiled his eyes from John. "I give him six months."

"And then what?"

Mycroft shrugged and picked up his phone. "Sherlock has a visitor... yes, now!"

As John was escorted away, he distinctly felt manipulated. Mycroft was not telling him everything.

"Sherlock!" John warmly shook his friend's hand, hiding his emotions as best he could from the guard standing watch. "Nice digs!"

"Better than Baker Street?" Sherlock queried as he cast his eyes across the chamber reserved for prestigious prisoners. Sherlock turned to the guard. "I believe I am entitled to private visits, Rogers."

Once he heard the click of the lock, Sherlock turned. "John! It's good to see you," he admitted, trying to deflect the anguish in his friend's face.

John nodded, then impulsively hugged his friend, more desperately than either had expected before they broke free silently.

"Not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "To quote Blaise Pascal: _The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of... We know the truth not only by the reason, but by the heart_.'"

John's resolve melted. "You are a conundrum! From the first, you have touted logic and rationalism as superior to the human heart, scorning sentiment whenever it was offered to you, but then you abandon everything...!"

"What I did was logical and right, John. I have no regrets for the justified demise of a man who has caused ruination to the helpless, who has toppled the righteous with shame, and who has blackened the hearts of loving folk with great despair. No! Those who are so heinous must be stopped."

"But now you're his last victim." John stated flatly. "You are ruined. In that split moment, whether it was premeditation or blind passion," John clenched his fists, reliving the moment and willing it to be different, "it was madness!"

"If my action is deemed madness, so be it. My normalcy has always been in question. I am a freak, unattached, antisocial—unquestionably a sociopath. I have always been inhuman, a lost cause. There was little to lose."

"Not to me!" John snapped pounding his chest. "Not to me. The majority of us are caught in societal constraints. We are told what to think and how to feel. After a while, we cannot distinguish the truth. We are swayed from the clarity of reason and integrity when we begin trusting the wrong people. But, not you, Sherlock! You are the rarity; the one who sees the honest, raw truth and does not fear to name it. You have set me right. Your uniqueness inspires me."

"Evolution shows that uniqueness leads to extinction." Sherlock smiled sadly. "But John, you are the blend of the best characteristics. You know how to fit in and still uphold your uniqueness. You deserve to survive."

"Survive? Is that it?" John puzzled. "DESERVE to survive? I nearly watched my best friend shot dead right before my eyes! Watching you 'die' the first time was traumatic enough—I almost didn't survive that. And now, I get to watch you be treated like a lunatic prisoner, carted off to who knows where to serve our government for however long. The only way I can survive all this is to know that you will return."

"I cannot promise you what I don't know." Something about Sherlock's vulnerability was unnerving. "Instead, John, promise me you will be happy. Your happiness with Mary and your child is the best outcome, the one I hoped to accomplish, through this fever of my madness."

"How can I be entirely happy at your expense?" John's eyes, welling with tears, looked for hope. "There's still time to play up the madness angle. Can't you say you suffered a psychotic episode, some PTSD from your recent gunshot wound and that you didn't know what you were doing? I can attest to the brainwashing we experienced as Magnussen played on our fears. You can plead for leniency, forgiveness …."

Sherlock shook his head, looking pale and forlorn, even though his clarifying eyes held their dazzling focus. "I ask forgiveness from no one—except from you—for the separation it will cost us both."

It was too much for John to hold back. Suddenly he was embracing his friend with strong arms, his voice hoarse with fury. "I promise you this. You will not regret your sacrifice." He felt in Sherlock's shoulders the genuine emotions his friend would never admit—self-imposed isolation dissolving with relief and joy in the warmth of human contact.

When they stood at a distance once more, John studied his friend's resigned face and sighed. "I am at a loss, Sherlock. I don't know what else to say to change this."

"Then, let me say thank you," slowly Sherlock extended his hand for a handshake, "for being my best friend, John Watson. The only man who laughed at my jokes."

"Got any now?" John's hand locked Sherlock's in a firm grip.

"Can't think of one…" Their clasp pumped a slow rhythm.

"Too bad." John mumbled. "I could use one."

"I'll think of something!" Sherlock smiled warmly. "Go home now, John."

Driving home, John was alone with his thoughts. What he deduced from both conversations with the Holmes brothers was curling his stomach. "Six months…" Mycroft had said. "I cannot promise…" Sherlock had admitted. John was certain the mission was a death sentence, to send the "hero" murderer off to a different kind of justice: merciless torture and death at the hands of the underworld!

"No!" John pounded the steering wheel. "I will **have** your back, mate! I will find a way to** bring** you back. You will **NOT** fool me again with the lie you want me to believe!"

This time John had an ally—Mary. _We can trust her_, Sherlock had said. With new insights about his dark desires, John had become fully reconciled with his addiction to danger as well as with his love for his dangerous wife. Marriage to a trained assassin and undercover intelligence expert had its advantages. They would never jeopardize their baby—but he and his Mary Watson WERE survivors, possibly they still had access to the covert connections.

It was then John knew the **_greatest danger to society_** that could bring Sherlock back home.

Promised one last meeting on the air base before Sherlock would be jetted away to unknown destinations, John had only a few days, maybe hours, to form and execute a plan. He decided he would allow appearances to stand. He would soldier up, as painful as it might be, and let them think he was "unaware" of the suicide mission. Let it seem that the "awkward" moments and fumbling "nonchalance" had to do with his helplessness before a fate he could not change. That way, they would never suspect.

It was time John Watson proved to himself that he was excellent at keeping secrets when it came to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
